Page 58 of An Arranged Betrothal with a Contrite Duke
As he finished two big gulps of the burning liquid, his door creaked open. He looked up, his hopes soaring as he wondered if it might be Lydia. But it was just Lark, who took in Michael’s actions with a slowly raising eyebrow. He studied his master’s face for a long moment before speaking.
“Is there something else I can bring you?” he asked, gesturing to the flask with his head. “Perhaps, a little coffee to chase that burn and any head pains away?”
Michael thought that over. He was in no mood for food. Coffee, however, might be very helpful for him. It was also good at chasing away hangovers. But the bourbon in the flask was already having its intended effect. And though the sun was just rising, he knew that every minute he lost of the day could be crucial if he was to have any hope of getting Lydia to come home.
“No,” he said at last. “Just help me dress quickly.”
The valet nodded, still looking at his master inquisitively.
“For what, specifically, should I dress you?” he asked.
Michael sighed heavily. He hadn’t planned out what he was going to do. He didn’t even know what he could do. But he couldn’t sit in his room and brood. And Marcus had had some good advice the previous night. He needed to speak to Lydia. But how could he do that if she didn’t return home?
“I am not sure,” he admitted.
Lark nodded, opening the dresser, and rummaging through the outfits.
“If I may, milord duke,” the valet said. “Are you troubled over the departure of her grace?”
Michael looked at his valet, feeling agitated despite the kindness of the man’s tone. But he just nodded, turning his eyes away from Lark.
“I must speak with her,” he muttered. “This cannot continue.”
Lark lifted his head as if in understanding. He turned back to the dresser, surveying the clothes carefully. Michael stood waiting, uninterested in the outfits themselves. He didn’t care how he looked. He had a much more important task.
At last, Lark retrieved a crisp riding outfit, complete with a gray and white striped waistcoat, gray shirt and cravat, black leather breeches and black riding boots, and black top hat. Michael raised his own eyebrows at his valet, earning a small smile.
“I understand that we should not expect Lady Strawbridge to return here today,” he said. “Thus, you will surely be leaving to find her. And you would likely start on horseback, as you can move more quickly that way than by carriage. And if you do locate her, I can imagine that you would want to look sharply dressed. Thus, I chose this outfit for you.”
Michael’s mouth fell open at the astuteness of his valet. It was indeed a very practical approach to the situation, and Michael hadn’t figured out anything beyond getting dressed.
“Impressive,” Michael said aloud. “However, don’t you think that I should have a way to speak to a woman who refuses to speak to me before we have all that?”
Lark shrugged.
“It never hurts to be prepared, in the event of achieving your goal,” he said.
Michael chuckled dryly.
“I suppose,” he said. “But how am I going to get her to speak to me?”
The valet gave Michael a wise smile.
“How do you know that she will not speak to you?” he asked.
Michael reached for his letter in his jacket pocket, realizing that it would have been in the pocket of the shirt he fell asleep in the previous night, the clothes from which Lark had just changed him. He cursed under his breath, shaking his head.
“Her own words say as much,” he hissed, thinking of her letter again.
The valet nodded indulgently.
“But have you tried?” he asked. “Do you know for sure that nothing you can say wouldn’t change her mind?”
Michael opened his mouth to protest and repeat his angry declaration. But he quickly closed it. It was true that he was sure that Lydia meant what she said. However, it was also true that he hadn’t even yet tried to speak to her. He held little hope, that much was true. But he couldn’t speak with certainty until he had at least tried.
“I do hate when you’re right, Lark,” he mumbled.
The valet grinned.
